Your Love Is My World
by Kismet's Kiss
Summary: Do you think, do you think I should ask for the moon, Ryan?  A Ryan and Sharpay Friendship Story for IdioCynic, Read and Review.


**Ah, since the ever so lovely Idio-cynic wished it to be, this will be a **_**friendship**_** Rypay, angst ridden and well, unfortunately an abomination seeing as I simply suck at writing if there's a substantial amount of time difference from my last venture. **

**Enjoy nonetheless, and please review even if I don't own the characters. **

**XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx Y.O.U.R.**_**L.O.V.E.**_I.S._**M.Y.**__**W.O.R.L.D**_**XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx**

**-**

She's always had this fear of wrinkles, really, a quite irrational fear if you count that she's had it since the early years of her childhood. She'd always fear that they would creep up on her when she least expected them and consume her entirely, turning her into a shriveled up old lady that holds no use to the world of glamour and green light.

Green's her least favorite color, ironically, for she thrives for that spotlight and those five minutes of fame every minute of the day and she _yearns_ for that lime light, even if for a moment, so she could feel of some _use_ to the world, and to someone, anyone.

She use to sit and watch our mother putting on her face cream at night after washing away light make up, watch her when she wakes up and gently splashed water on her delicate face. She use to mimic our mother's actions and routine of taking care of her skin even at the age of four and my mother would laugh and find her precious, even till this day using those memories as the only one she has when she looks at her little girl, now all grown up and shrill with fury at everything within the world.

Our mother can't stand to see anything else but that little girl that sat right beside her and wanted to be just like her one day.

Our father is too busy to see his little girl is slowly destroying herself with her need to be perfect.

Our world is made of little moments in time that define us.

At the age of twelve she had gotten her period and I had never been more terrified in my life. At first, I thought she was going to die. I regretfully admit smiling for a fleeting second at the prospect of finally being my own self but then I started to cry at the pure fact that I wouldn't even know how to start.

Next, I freaked out, she was my _twin_, if it was happening to her, then wouldn't it be happening to me, too? Was I going to bleed down there as well? I couldn't understand it all so I had run to find my mother. Before I had even the chance to find her, there _she_ was walking down the hallway looking smug and clean and glowing.

I stared and stared and finally, irritated she looked my way. Her essence and dagger eyes simply barked '_what?!'_ and I gulped and feared but asked nonetheless about the blood that stained our bed sheets early that morning and she stared before smiling, grinning, laughing.

"Oh Ryan, I'm a _woman_ now." And then we no longer slept together for we had the room anyways.

At fifteen and sixteen she had become the ice queen, a person untouched by mankind and emotions that caused frown lines and wrinkles and anything harmful to the skin. Mother dearest always looked the other way and father never took notice, but _I_ did. I was her servant, her henchman, and she was no longer my twin, for I was no longer her equal.

Not in her eyes.

Not in _our_ eyes.

Everything I saw, I saw through her. My mind had become manipulated and deceived and conformed to fit her needs. One might venture to say that I was a victim but I say I was blessed. She _trusted_ me, and looked for _me. _Believing in me that I could help her get the job done no matter what it was.

Besides, it was the only way I was of any importance to her, the only way I fit into her life.

At nineteen she is off to a big production theater and I'm going along for the ride just to be her partner in some and her understudy in most. We're twins, I can cross dress apparently to look like her but I scoff at this and clearly say _no_-yet she looks at me with pleading, defenseless eyes and knowing she's letting her guard down for me is enough incentive to cause me to give in 'cause everyone _knows_ if Sharpay Evans is ever sincere, you _do_ what she wants or there will be _hell_ to pay.

At twenty-two she wipes her hands of me and claims she doesn't need me anymore. Surprising to her I simply smile, wish her good luck and walk away with a wave. She doesn't call back for me but instead clicks her heels louder in the opposite direction, sure for me to hear them. I sit in the back row as I watch her performances from now on, no longer beside her or beside the curtains in the wing, awaiting her return and blabber about how everything was wrong and nothing felt right.

Her smile shines through the audience and everyone gloats at how beautiful of a stage performer she is but they never speak of how beautiful a person she is, and once, when relaying to her this little bit of information she shrugs it off for it's dinner and that's nonsense talk, she's a _great_ person, why, the other day, she allowed some amateur pianist to play her song while she danced to it and didn't say more than five cruel remarks to the tiny person on how to improve. She's wonderful, she _really_ is.

At twenty-five she's engaged and in love. It's not like any of her flings or old boyfriends, for this time she has stars in her eyes and our parents can see it and talks of a big wedding go underway. She comes up to me while I sit perched on the lawn chair at our upstairs balcony and when she places her hands on me I take notice at how delicate her skin is, never washing a plate in her life, always applying cream or some sort of skin treatment and that is when I look up at her and her worried, scared filled eyes and I realize she doesn't know what she's doing and she's still just the same little girl, all those years ago, trying to be like her mother, trying to do what life expects of her, trying to keep up appearances.

"You don't have to marry him, if you don't want to."

"Mom was engaged at this age."

And that was enough. She said it all. A year later she's married with a flower of a halo around her hair and sparkling little flakes donning her wedding dress and face. The bouquet was thrown already and a friend that caught it looked my way and they laughed and giggled all together and she winks at me and says 'Go get her Ry' and I can't help but smile at her playful happiness and her attention towards me.

It's her wedding day, a day all about her, she finally has a day where the world revolves around her but she's still looking at _me._

When they drive off I'm left in shards, as though I was looking through a kaleidoscope, I see my life without her and I see my life with her-growing up, trailing behind her, performing beside her, and smiling at her. A wave goodbye to top it all off, and I can no longer see the blurred image of their car.

Placing my hands in my pocket, turning to the girl with pretty brown hair and eyes that remind me of Sharpay with their tint of honey brown-yellow, I smile at the beginning of what looks to be a new life.

That is, until, three years later she comes banging at my door with soaked hands and crying sobs, drenched form with mascara running down, talk of how Evan had cheated on her, Evan wants to divorce her, and Evan has ruined her life.

I hate myself though for in that moment as Monica is sleeping in our bedroom, pregnant with our first child, I find comfort in that fact that my sister came to _me_ to calm her worries and she's laying on _my_ lap as I caress her hair and self into a gentle sob filled sleep, and it's _me_ now, with the perfect life, and the perfect glory with the spotlight shining down as she's left in the dark cold alley of a wasted life with wasted love.

And as she sleeps silently and I realize the predicament she is in, I realize I too, am in the same boat of a false reality and false happiness and without _her _smile, I am unable to produce even the smallest measurement of cheerfulness.

"Thanks Ryan, I owe you one." She says the morning after as she steals my wife's cream and gently massages it through her skin, taking care to smooth her flesh with a ethereal glow of beauty and I have to admit, she really_ is_ a goddess in her own right and when she turns and smiles at me, a real one of gratitude, I am able to smile just once again.

At thirty-five she's standing there amongst a crowd of black for our father dies, and as the black veil covers her porcelain skin that otherwise would be tan if not for her mourning, I wonder if she's crying or forcing herself not to for the sake of not obtaining wrinkles.

A look to her right would tell her mother dearest couldn't care less about her appearance as she breaks down into a million pieces and another look over would tell her I'm looking right at her, staring _through_ her as I hold on to the crumbling form of a now widowed and broken woman, telling her, _You'll never be her, if you never love like her._

If she wanted to be like our mother so bad, why was she the exact opposite?

She carefully removes the veil at thirty-six and looks at the bright sun. Lying to rest the last parent in the same year is tiresome and she's exhausted, ready to call the quits. Instead, she looks my way and beckons me over, giving little Alicia over to her mother I jog over open eared and ready to give a shoulder but she looks at me with dazed eyes and asks,

"When's our next performance, Ryan?"

The clouds speed up it seems, to cover that once bright sun filled sky, and as the storm rolls in I can't help but think; _that_ was the one calm before the storm, her clear look of serenity towards me. I cry out her name and hold her and she lays stiff in my arms, my question of when this mental breakdown ensued, attacking the back of my brain.

At forty-nine she's sitting by the window watching the birds chirp and the wind help the trees beat against the window pane.

I need a name tag to see her now and I'm accompanied by a nurse that injects something into her, something that causes me to look away, and when she turns to me her eyes are vacant, no longer seeing what's in front of her or around her and I cry each time I bend before her and delve my face into her lap.

"How's Alicia? Make sure to keep up with her dance lessons, Monica never fully understood the life of a star, be sure she doesn't stop Alicia's growth and rise to fame."

"I promise. I won't."

"You know, Evan told me today…he told me, 'Sharpay, don't go asking for the moon or I will go mad in trying to get it for you.'"

I couldn't tell her that Evan was with his new wife, the very same that he had cheated on Sharpay with. I couldn't tell her that the dream world she was living in was just an illusion. By doing so, I was destroying what was left of my hopes that one day she's turned to me and wake up from this nightmare.

"Do you think, do you think I should ask for the moon, Ryan?"

I can't pretend I knew all her secrets, and I can't pretend to have known what caused it all, but she needed me even when she denied it and I had left when she needed me most, and for _that_ I was to blame, a blame that haunted me every minute of every day.

At fifty-three she no longer sees for the both of us, directing our way of life. She no longer controls her own as I try to feed her and pry the hand away from her face where the cover up make up lays idly within her other palm, remnants of it on her fingertips dotting and marking her face.

"I can't have wrinkles, Ryan, everyone is watching and everyone will talk. I will forever be young and beautiful, and then they will _all_ love me."

"But I love you, _I_ **love** _you_, isn't that enough? Old and wrinkled, until your…d-d-…_dying_ day, I will love you Sharpay. Isn't that more than enough?"

"The world is not enough, Ryan. It's never enough."

-

**Oh, I am so terribly sorry for this atrocious one-shot, I'll make it up to you.**

**-**


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